It was a race between three competitors: an exiled heretic, his belligerent pursuers, and the gait of the setting sun. Both the hunters and their target ran until dusk and came upon the last mile of rolling plain before it disappeared into the forested path- its gnarly, outgrown roots large enough to trip even the largest breed of horses. The hunt was still on though. The exile was followed hotly by armored men on horses, who had blunt maces drawn and ready to swing. Their intent not to cut down and kill, but to injure and incapacitate, as they wanted to drag him back with them alive. The distance between the hunting party's vanguard and the back of the fleeing exile himself head grew ever shorter. But to the lucky bastard's surprise, his escape was aided by a patch land rendered muddy and impassable. The sludge was caused by the previous evening's rain and eventually slowed the hunting party. And as the exile slid down a hill and into the forested path, so did the sun. The hunt was called off…